


Limerence

by SpaceBetweenHeartbeats



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Not beta'd we die like men, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats/pseuds/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats
Summary: Eskel hears you moan his name in your dreams but Witchers don't feel... or at least that's what you thought.Smut and a touch of fluff for our favourite scarred sweetheart. Not beta'd.*Please excuse the use of Sindarin, in place of Elder speech, there really isn't enough written language to construct the phrases I wanted to use.
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Eskel (The Witcher)/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 139





	Limerence

The mattress at the inn is underfilled and sags beneath Eskel's weight, rolling you gently towards him.

He lies awake, watching the hours drift by in the stuffy room but sleep eludes him. He runs through the day's events, mentally tallying your remaining supplies, wonders if he'll be able to pick up a couple more contracts before you reach Kaedwen.

The shutter at the window is broken and the moonlight that spills through the cracks gilds your skin and renders the rest of the room shabby and uninviting. Your hair has slipped free from its ties and spreads like a stain across the pillow. 

You stir, pressing back against him, lips moving in silent prayer. The curve of your cheek is flushed, your breathing erratic and shallow. He can hear the quick thrum of your pulse, the twitch of your carotid under his fingertips. Your heartbeat is fast but steady, you have no fever but yet you are restless, eyelids fluttering, body rippling.

This is not good business, he's your escort to Ard Carraigh - a hired sword, no more, no less. A muscle in his jaw begins to tic as he watches you, hears you moan softly into the threadbare pillow. He knows he should have insisted on taking the floor, that this would only lead to awkwardness and embarrassment for him, would only lead him back into the familiar dance of longing and rejection but you had been utterly wide eyed with innocence and so insistent that he had relented and slipped his tired body under the sheets next to yours.

He closes his eyes, wills himself to find sleep, but it slips eel-quick through his grasp. He sits up with a gentle huff, readies himself to swing his long legs off the side of the bed and sleep on the floor, stilling at the sound of his name on your lips, breathy and needy _and gods it sounds so beautiful when you say it._

He is an aberration, unworthy of you and yet, curled next to your sleeping frame, his humanity is all too stark, all too real.

The dull itch of his scars flares up and he releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding, fingers flexing over the dark rivers of twisted skin on the right side of his face.

Again, he hears it, his name on your lips and he is half hard with want already. He palms his twitching cock, squeezes it lightly as it thickens and fills his hand, rests his head back against the tattered headboard.

He is all too used to taking his pleasure at his own hand but this feels different.

He knows he's running a terrible risk, knows this is _oh so wrong_. He will have to be discreet, the thought takes him back to being a teenager in a draughty shared room in Kaer Morhen all those years ago. _No, it would be improper and unprofessional. Gods she's attractive though, she's fucking killing me._

It has been too long since he heard his name on a woman's lips, too long since he felt desirable. Here you are, moaning his name in your dreams and just for a second, he thinks it could be real. Just for a fleeting moment he allows himself to imagine you fucking him, whimpering out his name as he buries his face in your hair and _oh gods its so good._

You roll over, arch and stretch, reaching for the gentle warmth of his body to anchor you back to your slumber. 

Your eyes, leaden with sleep, open to see Eskel, eyes closed, cock in hand, mouth slack and lost in his pleasure and a thin coil of heat unfurls low in your belly.

The sharp intake of your breath snatches him back to his senses. A wash of shame, hot and bitter rolls over him. He wants to tell you to leave, that it is too much to let you see him like this but the air eats his words and it is all he can do to stutter out his apologies in the desperate scrabble to pull his trousers on.

_Had he felt, with his witcher senses, the hammer-blows of your heartbeat as you curled against him, had he heard his name on your lips as you dreamed ?_

Your hand on his forearm tugs him back towards the bed, slim fingers pressing with surprising strength on the corded muscles, swelling the growing silence between you both. You slide your hand slowly up his arm your fingers lingering over the shift and play of his muscles and bring it to rest on his chest. His skin is warm, soft dark curls peek out from the worn linen of his shirt, and you count the spaces between each slow heartbeat.

He exhales a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, waits mute for the arrows of your contempt to rain down on him, scans your features for distaste or pity. It has been such a long time since anyone touched him without anger or fear.

"I should leave", he says, his voice barely a husky whisper.

"Wait", you say as your gaze lands on his stiffened cock.

He colours, rubs a hand over his scarred face, "...it's been a while...I heard you say my name, you seemed…" he trails off, not wishing to cause further embarrassment to either of you. "I apologise for any offence caused".

"Do you often take your pleasure at your own hand?"

He shrugs, "I'm not human. I am not to everyone's _taste."_ He keeps his voice dispassionate but the loneliness is palpable and your heart breaks for him.

_Who ever said witchers don't feel?_

You trace a lazy pattern over his heart and he stills, casting his gaze down at your errant fingers.

"I'm not offended," you say with studied insouciance.

 _Oh it is too much_. He can feel the warmth of your hand on his chest, hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat, he sees the steady blush that creeps across your cheeks. The boldness of your touch thrills him but he needs to be sure, experience has taught him not to trust a human's words. His stubble prickles and rasps against your skin, as he presses his face to the crook of your neck and drags his nose along the curve of your jawline and you register with a faint flutter that he's _smelling_ you.

Your heart skitters and your breath hitches in your throat, it is so easy to forget that beneath his quiet, thoughtful demeanour there is magic in him, coiled beneath his skin, dark and ancient.

His nostrils flare, he indulges himself with the fragrance of your skin, the faint hint of summer blossoms and warm hay peeking through the heady scent of your arousal. He closes his eyes, lets it envelop his senses and drowns in it.

You have grown impatient so your kiss, when it comes, is a taste of honey to a starving man and he freezes, knowing better than to push his luck but your lips are so warm and full and soft that just for a second he presses his lips back against yours and allows himself to imagine a life where he is loved by someone other than the whores he pays in heavy coin.

You take his lower lip between your teeth and tug gently _and oh gods the moan he lets out is sinful and wicked._ He cradles your upturned face in his massive calloused hands, returns your kiss with a deliberate intensity that leaves you feverish and glassy-eyed. You lick up into his mouth, your hands splayed against the soft curls and broad planes of his chest before divesting him of his shirt, teasingly slow.

There is so much horror writ large on his frame, each ridged and puckered scar a silent testament to a life bereft of tenderness. The scar across his lip is surprisingly soft and his kisses are not gentle but rather, urgent, insistent, as he licks into your mouth, nips at your lower lip. He tastes unexpectedly sweet, like midsummer ale but too soon the spell is broken and you break apart, panting pressing your forehead against his, your mouth curling into a slow, sweet smile.

"I didn't know witchers could kiss like that"

"We lack emotion, not ability," he quips

 _Gods but your smile is like the sun,_ he thinks and a part of him hates himself because he knows come tomorrow there'll be regrets and awkwardness when you wake up next to his ruined face, but if he closes his eyes he can make believe you'll stay.

A sinuous curving scar snakes its way from his shoulder to his hip and you run a fingertip along its length before pressing a kiss to it. He lets out a low groan, those amber eyes widening.

"So Witchers _do_ feel", you say.

Your words catch him unawares and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It is a curious thing, a cruel trick of nature that at his happiest he should look so abhorrent. He checks himself and carefully composes his face into his usual scowl.

"Hmmm", he growls as your kisses sear his skin, he chases your lips greedily, wine drunk on the taste of you. A gentle tug at the laces of your nightdress, and he teases each one apart like pulling petals from a flower. Slipping the fabric over one shoulder, then another until it pools at your waist, his eyes darken, no longer the colour of sunlight on newly minted coin.

You suddenly feel exposed, the night air no longer stuffy, you shiver, moving your arms to cover your breasts. 

He slides his fingers down your shoulders, skates over the warm skin of your arms, takes your hands in his, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"My Gods", he rasps, "may I?"

He ghosts his lips over the juncture of your neck, kisses feather soft over the spot where your pulse thrummed beneath your skin, murmuring endearments as he skims his fingertips down your chest and gently pries your hands away.

The skin of your breast is velvet, he cups it in his palm, darts his tongue across the peak of your nipple, gently laving at its stiffened peak before sucking _hard._

 _Gods but you see stars_ , a whimper of delight slips from your mouth and his dark hair welcomes the sharp twist of your fingers as you lace them to his crown. He teases each breast in turn, releasing your nipples, sensitive and flushed with a soft wet pop. He is slow, deliberately slow, pressing his kisses to every pulse point as he snakes his way down your body, marvelling at the yield of your flesh, so unlike the battle hardened planes of his own. His hand hovers at your hip, his mouth kissing its way down your abdomen igniting a flare of heat between your legs that has you squirming, before stilling and shifting his weight, making his way up your body and kissing your mouth again.

"Tell me you want this. Tell me there'll be no regrets in the morning."

He is fervent, voice shaking, his eyes fixed on your face. You wilt under his steady gaze but nod your assent.

"Say it. _Please."_

"I want this. I want you, Eskel."

He sighs, relief crossing his heavy features and resumes his tender assault on your lips, allows himself to lick and suck a meandering path back down your body before pulling your hips down the bed and pressing his mouth to your cunt. His hands curl behind your thighs, holding you open, strong nose pressing against your clit as he drags the flat of his tongue across the seam of your sex.

His mouth is hot and wet, a warm whorl of breath against your cunt that makes your skin tingle. He kisses and licks your folds, feasting upon the sweet slick of your arousal, spreading you wide with deft fingers. A thick finger breaches you, filling you up to the knuckle, catching that sweet spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your blood sing.

"Fuck", he groans, as he hollows his cheeks and sucks at your clit, the tiny bundle of nerves licking lightning up your spine, thundering your heartbeat loud in your ears.

The way your back arches off the bed lets him know he's pleasing you and you are grateful for the flex of his bicep to anchor you in place.

He adds another finger, crooks it _just so_ in a _come hither_ motion, pumps his fingers into the wet, velvet heat of your cunt before returning to his ministrations, his mouth a hot seal around your swollen clit.

 _Gods but you are beautiful_ he thinks as you grind against him, your legs shaking and trembling, hands twisting into his dark hair, leaving Braille patterns against your slim fingertips.

 _Almost, almost._ He teases you, curling his tongue, _tasting_ the rapid crescendo of your pulse as it hammers in your chest.

"Eskel, oh gods Eskel!"

His name never sounded as sweet as when it came from your lips in breathy gasps and whines, the flood tides of your orgasm rising as your legs shake and your fingers tug his hair.

He lets your legs give out, all sense of reason long abandoned and watches you beneath heavy lidded eyes, lazily lapping at you as you twitch and writhe through your release.

He rises from between your legs, wipes your come from his face with the back of his hand. You rise to meet him, rubbing against him like a sated cat, pushing up on tip toes to capture his lips in a kiss. He tastes of you and you moan into his mouth as you feel the twitch of his cock against your stomach.

His massive hand spans your neck, as he runs kisses down the line of your jaw, tentatively at first before pressing his calloused fingers by degrees into the plump flesh of your arse.

His cock is warm and solid in your hand, a small pearl of pre come glistening at the tip. He shudders, cants his hips as you swipe your thumb across it and it emboldens you. Sinking to your knees, you wrap a hand around his shaft and press a kiss to the tip.

He hisses as you gently lave him with your tongue before opening your mouth wider and taking him deeper. You let out a hum of contentment as he becomes slick in your mouth, wrapping your hand around the base, where your mouth can't reach. 

He swallows hard as you peer up at him through dark lashes and it's honestly all he can do not to try to fuck your mouth.Your lips feel much softer around his cock than he could have possibly imagined. _Gods he had tried though._

Bobbing your head you set a slow, intense pace, feeling the the throb of his cock against the roof of your mouth as you palm his balls. You take him to the hilt, watching his knees buckle slightly before releasing him with a soft pop, languidly stroking his spit slicked shaft.

"Do you like this Eskel?" you purr,

"do like your cock in my mouth?"

Eskel grits out a growl of pleasure, the sound of low thunder, tangling his fingers in your hair before guiding you gently back to his cock

You take your time, pressing and caressing your tongue against the underside of Eskel's dick, sheathing him once more in the wet heat of your mouth before picking up the pace, working your hand over the base of his cock earning a soft moan from Eskel as his hand tightens in your hair.

Two, three strokes more and he suddenly pulls back, his cock falling from your lips, bobbing under its own weight. The confusion in your eyes gives him a moment's pause.

"Not yet…..not like this. Need to be inside you."

He puts a hand under your elbow and guides you to your feet, tilting your face towards his and claiming your lips in a passionate kiss before pushing you back on the bed.

Eskel kneels, wrapping your legs around his waist, savours the grip of your thighs around his waist as he draws his cock through the slick of your cunt a few times. You whimper in anticipation as he slides his arm under your leg, levering it up to rest your calf on his broad shoulder and presses into you, inch by torturous inch.

He grinds into you slowly, watching your face skew with pleasure at the sweet stretch as he seats himself within you. A slow roll of his hips as he bottoms out sends a jolt of ecstasy through you and you grasp him like he is a pillar of safety, his body your refuge as your nails leave a pattern of crescent moons on his upper arms. 

Sweet Melitele you have never been so full and you can feel his cock pulse thickly, deep in the recesses of your body.

Your cunt's grip is like a velvet fist and Eskel stills, not wishing to lose control like some inexperienced boy. One heartbeat, two heartbeats and he's pulling out before snapping his hips forward in a punishing pace, large thumb rubbing your sensitive clit.

"Oh Gods Eskel!",

your voice an incredulous whisper at the sweet lick of fire in your veins. Tiny beads of sweat prickle and bead on your skin, the sound of your moans punctuated by the rattle of the headboard against the wall. He growls in your ear, as he drives into you, over and over again, thumb ghosting over your swollen clit, the feel of his heavy balls slapping against your skin and the air thick with sweat and sex and sin.

You chase your pleasure greedily, flexing the muscles of your cunt and gasping out soft curses into the night air as the drag of his cock against your walls makes you see stars. Your orgasm washes over you, makes your body sing a song as old as the ebb and flow of the tides.

His eyes, black as the boundless night skies never leave yours, fucking you through your climax, wallowing in the unfettered joy of your release before spilling into you in a tumble of muttered obscenities.

He slumps on top of you, heavy and warm and you revel in the safety of his body. This man has no need to boast of his stamina, his prowess, so unlike the lovers of your callow youth and it thrills you.

He wonders at how you came to lie next to him, sweat slicked and drowsy, sated on pleasure but time remembered does not flow smoothly and he cannot pinpoint the moment he registered with sharp, unyielding disbelief the nature of your affections.

Perhaps it was your eyes, mirror bright with mirth as you rode alongside him, the warm sun of your dark gaze as he helped you from your horse or the ghost of your touch on his arm...

He groans, rolls off and covers his face with his arm. _It doesn't matter, there is no place for love in a Witcher's life._

You wonder if you have disappointed him.

"Eskel" you murmur, "did I not please you?"

He turns to look at you and you hoard the gold of his gaze like a miser. He looks utterly wrecked, lips pink and puffy, dark hair in disarray.

Eskel thinks he may never have the strength to leave your bed and resume the Path. He exhales heavily, presses the ruin of his face into the softness of your hair, inhaling deeply and muttering something softly in Elder speech. " _Guren min gaim lín, melethril nîn"_

His arm wraps around you, pulls you close, your head resting against his chest. He kisses the top of your head tenderly.

"What did you say?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Then there is no shame in the telling is there?", you look up at him with wide eyes and he colours under your gaze, his voice a low rumble.

"My heart is in your hands, my love"


End file.
